When Katherine Heigl jumped into a taxi, her chiffon frills almost getting caught on the door, then paid the driver to look away as she proceeded to change into a lavender silk number, fifteen-year-old me found herself thinking - What wouldn’t I give to have my hair in disarray, my purse almost flying out the window, be up to my knees in sparkly pantyhose in the backseat of a taxi, while hopping from wedding to wedding in New York City?
And when I stumbled onto the rare episode of Sex and the City on TV, I knew I wanted to be Carrie Bradshaw, not for the promise of a Mr. Big or Aidan Shaw (honestly, though, go Team Aidan, am I right?), but for that one scene, where Sarah Jessica Parker sat snuggled into her chair, wearing an oversized t-shirt, knees drawn up to her chin, writing on her laptop - her voluminous curls delicately blowing in the late night breeze coming in from the heart of the gorgeously-lit, starry spread that was - trust me, this isn’t the pattern I’m about to discuss - New York City.
I can imagine writers of American romantic comedies sitting at their work-stations, halfway through their morning mocha and multiple scenes into their first draft, thinking, I need to construct a plot that will make viewers want to fall in love. That has hardly been the case for me. Although, to be fair, I did have my share of crushes on James Marsden, Ryan Gosling, Mark Ruffalo and the like, but what truly remained (other than Jude Law, oh my god!), through the years, is a love affair with glimmering cities and the experience of growing as a woman in one.
My romantic movie dream has always centred around the routines of its female protagonists. Waking up into an independent life, in an apartment only slightly messy from a movie binge and Chinese take-out from the night before, walking into a coffee shop with knee-high boots on, wind in hair as, somehow, an entire city converges into the courtyard of the office she’s going to. Cue KT Tunstall’s Suddenly I See or Natasha Bedingfield’s Unwritten. A vibrant portrait of life, teeming with leather jackets and promises.
Before a rain-soaked Emma Stone leaped into the arms of Ryan Gosling in Crazy, Stupid, Love, sixteen-year-old me was already besotted by how she squeezed girls’ nights at the bar, in between studying for her law exams. Looking back on this mentality as a twenty-five-year-old, having had the new-city-new-independent-life-tequila-Saturdays experience for a while now, I realize it was less about the alcohol-drinking or the fast-paced-living, and mostly about the possibilities that could result from such equations. Gin n’ tonic summed with high heels resulted in magic. A new dress multiplied by the beats of an alternative rock song equalled to a life-changing event. It was the hope that an ordinary Wednesday can turn into the best night of your life, a dreary meeting at the office can suddenly transport you to a new chapter.
But, as stories like these go, said life-changing events and said new chapters usually translate to a shy smile from Ryan Reynolds, Patrick Dempsey in a suit, Hugh Dancy telling you how beautiful you look in a saree… sorry, I mean, evening gown.
There was a meme going around Facebook a while ago, where someone had simplified the plotlines of every romantic comedy ever, and it went somewhat like this -
“Effort - overcoming past trauma
Reward - a boyfriend
Effort - learning to let go of unfair expectations
Reward - a boyfriend
Effort - being emotionally independent, loving yourself, etc.
Reward - a boyfriend”
Film plots - especially those of feel-good romances - seem to be maturing with us, but at a time when our tender little teenage hearts were learning to formulate our expectations, we saw fireworks going off in the background as men got down on their knees; forbidden lovers standing under windows with boomboxes on their shoulders; the entire brass section of the orchestra at your doorstep, who slowly part to reveal the boy you've always liked coming towards you with a prom corsage in his hands.
The problem is not what we expect from men. Rather, it's with what movies have taught us to expect from men. And that is why, despite having the most fulfilling love affair we can have with ourselves or the new city we've moved to, the experience always feels a little incomplete. Despite waking up to a gorgeous autumn morning in floral pyjamas you've gifted yourself, ready to make your artisanal coffee and take on the world, all you can think about is how he never texted you back. You may be at a park, under chestnut trees and a gorgeous midday sky, enjoying a day you've gifted yourself after an intense week at a job you've single-handedly got based on your unique abilities, but you end up day-dreaming about a possible meet-cute. A frisbee landing on your feet, whose owner shortly comes running up, the sun in his hair and the knowledge of an instant love connection in his eyes.
'You don't want to be in love,' Rosie O'Donnell tells Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle, 'you want to be in love in a movie.' At one point, Kate Winslet breaks down during brunch in The Holiday, and tearfully claims, 'You're supposed to be the leading lady of your own life, for god's sake!' In which story? I end up asking. Which sub-plot in the movie of our lives is she talking about? Because when it comes to love, we have been taught to chase. Not necessarily another person, but an idea of perfection. An idea we usually impose on ourselves. We try to construct ourselves in the styles of heroines - and I'm not talking about fabulous haircuts and gorgeous dresses, in which case, ladies, never stop! - tearing bits and pieces off real experiences to stitch an identity that the movies have expected us to appreciate. That the movies have conditioned us as deserving of love, of happiness, of the kind of satisfaction that makes you plug in your earphones and dance in the middle of a crowded street. Cue Cyndi Lauper's Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.
We ignore the stories we already have, the colours in our lives and the unique experiences they painted, simply because they don't resonate with the cliches in romantic comedies. And this is coming from someone who loves cliches. It's something I was born with, and have only grown to love more because of the movies. So, I don't regret all the warmth and fuzz that romantic comedies have brought into my life. Ironically, they are what I fall back on, when life gets too difficult, too real. They are often the cause of our unhappiness, and the hands which support us through it. It's like any kind of relationship that you allow to deepen.
Now, when I watch the movies I loved as a teenager, I observe different things. I empathize with the leading lady's loneliness, take note of the nuances of friendship, rewind to the moment when Jude Law puts on his thick-framed glasses… hey, don't blame me - some things don't change!
So, what I believe is that we don't grow out of things. We just learn to fit into them in different ways. I might have spent years lying flat on my stomach and writing on the bed, but now, feel more comfortable on a desk and chair. The writing, however, never stops. The newer things we move on to may just be things we have always had around us, but which fit differently now. None of it stops - not the love for cliches, not the hope for meet-cutes, and definitely not the equations of magic. Glimmering dress. Champagne glasses. Cue Whitney Houston's I Wanna Dance With Somebody.
Madhura Banerjee is a published writer, with two books of poetry, and contributions in Scholastic books, The Telegraph, Livewire, etc. She is a Creative Writing mentor with The Climber - MyCaptain Program. She lives in Bangalore, loves travelling, singing and making coffee. Her other career is in software development, having finished her master's degree in Computer Science. She is also a TEDx speaker.
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